Wind howling, and snow racing across his vision. Bronduff watched from afar as guards residing in a small village, changed shifts. All of this achieved thanks to a miracle in his eyes, an act performed by himself. The blizzard—hiding his presence—did nothing to obscure his sight.

Carefree in nature, he unslung his bow, grabbed two arrows from his satchel, stretched the string, and aimed.

In a blur of movement, two arrows went sailing forth, cutting through the wind as if it wasn’t even there. His second miracle, and followed by a third.

As the pair of guards were struck in the face, the arrows going through their eyes. Their forms became stiff, and stayed upright.

Breathing in deep, he performed a fourth act of holiness. Limbs priming with strength, he ran, the ground blurring away as he traveled the length of a league in seconds. With little effort he jumped, sailing high, and sinking his claws into ice and wood.

He could have leapt over the wall entirely, but that risked possible exposure. Instead, he peered over the edge, scouting the area. In the blanket of night, he saw the small village barren, save for the occasional guard, none of whom were taking their charge seriously.

Complacency, people kept safe for too long, and believing their humble defenses would keep them protected. An error they would regret tonight, and within the Glen.

Flexing his arms, he pulled himself up to the guard post, and quickly jumped to the ground; the fall great enough it would have killed a mortal.

With no one near, Bronduff didn’t waste the time, nor Devotion, muting the impact of his fall with a miracle. He saved it for another. Breathing in deep, taking in the scents of the area; most dulled by the cold and snow. He made a map in his mind of where the inhabitants were sleeping.

At least fifty souls in total called the village their home, and none would remain by the night’s end.

Pulling out a vial, he dipped each of his claws into the brew. A poison learned from Foy. A small dose, such as a scratch, and the substance would have a mortal fall into a deep slumber within seconds. It made his work a great deal easier.

Slowly navigating through snow-covered paths, he went on the hunt. His prey oblivious to his presence, thanks to a miracle, and the blizzard that had taken the land. Few were around for him to handle, the storm had most of the villagers holding up in their dwellings; safely tucked away from the biting cold.

As such, he only had to spend small amounts of Devotion to stay unnoticed, as, one by one, he fell upon unsuspecting guardsmen. Their cries of alarm snuffed out by his miracle as he scratched through fur and skin. They slumped not long after, and he left them where they lay.

He was done hunting in a handful of minutes; the villagers none the wiser as he began the next phase of his assault.

Breaking into homes, those made of mud, wood and stone, weren’t always a smooth process, even with the aid of a miracle. If someone was awake inside, and saw the door to their residence being battered upon, the lack of noise would make no difference to their reaction.

But he had help, given he was never alone. Nearing a hut to his left, he closed his material eyes, and opened his etheric one. The realm shifted, filling with colors and entities most mortals weren’t supposed to see. Majority were helpless, having no power to their name, thus unable to interact with the material plane.

But not his comrades. Appearing as cloaked individuals in black, the garb hiding their features, they stalked the area, waiting for his command. Motioning to the nearest, he outstretched a hand, and offered it Devotion.

The Shadow snatched it quickly, pressing the light close to its chest as the power merged with it. Pointing to the soul, he gave it the impression of what he wanted. ‘Check if anyone is awake, and unlatch the door.’

It nodded once, and hurried with its task.

It phased through the building, and in a handful of seconds, reappeared. Rather than the use of words, sights entered Bronduff’s mind. The door was unbarred, but individuals were awake. He saw the vision of a child, the boy caught in a nightmare, and his limbs jerking about. Small whimpers left him, causing his parents, who watched over him, to worry.

The boy wouldn’t wake.

‘Even here.’ This was the fourth village he had come upon with the ailment. Suppressing a sigh, he walked up and quickly opened the door; a miracle on his lips as he shut the entrance behind him.

Even silent, heads turned his way. The cabin was small, so the dip in temperature, and movement of air, got the adults attention. They shouted out cries, the sound only going so far.

He charged forward, and fully extended his claws. Teens and younger children began to wake as he crashed into the only adult male, and began slashing. The female screamed louder, as the fellow Kolune—Ascendants of wolves—came after him with her own claws, attempting to aid her already beaten husband.

A quick backhand from him sent her spinning, and jaw broken.

The sleep addled youngsters desperately rose from their bedrolls, their own claws lengthening as they bared their fangs. Power filling his limbs, he became a blur of movement as his claws sliced through flesh.

Soon, the only sound was his breathing and the nightmare taken infant; the boy still asleep.

He left them where they lay, and recoated his claws with the sleeping agent. Closing his eyes, he talked with the Shadows once more and gave them their orders. He emphasized swiftness, as many more dwellings needed to be raided, and he wanted it all done before dawn.

***

He dragged the last of the villagers into the settlement’s great hall. The place plastered with battle trophies and depictions of Wargain. Most showing the god standing on top a mound of corpses; his sovereignty absolute.

Bronduff let out a grunt of contempt; all these lies. Wargain wasn’t all powerful, he’d come close to losing on occasion, and one day, would lose everything.

For Bronduff and his fellow worshippers of Malan, would never cease to be, no matter how many times they were vanquished by hallowed light and flame; they always came back.

‘One day, you will meet defeat war god.’ And he would be there, no matter how far off. Till then, he continued his work, supporting his god as best he could.

With a wave of his hand, Shadows closed the heavy wooden doors behind him, silencing the howling wind, and bringing peace back to the hall.

Combing through his pockets, he began putting together intricate pieces of stone. They slotted into one another perfectly, and when the final fragment fell into place—connecting the runes—it flared brightly for a breath.

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Removing any filth on the floor with a miracle, he carefully placed the object on the ground. Equipping a miracle worked blade, he effortlessly began cutting a pattern around it; claiming the ground for his god. Same as the stone, the runes flared dimly before going dormant, the sign he’d done his task correctly.

Out of habit he fell to his knees, eyes closed, mind emptied. He began sending Devotion, the act tranquil, and promptly ruined by the whimpering’s of infants. Looking upon them with his etheric eye, he watched the foreboding aura of blackness that radiated out from children troubled by nightmares. Even those newly initiated at gazing upon the realm of the Glen, would know something sinister was at work.

Normally he would ignore it, his travels and knowledge of forbidden lore made the matter unimportant. An act of some forgotten, or fledgling god, that would fade like so many others. But this was a pattern now, a sight he’d seen from too many villages, and too spread out. Power worth noting was behind this work, and a matter his god was in need of knowing.

But first there was appeasement.

Rising to his feet, he, and some Shadows eager to affect the realm. Began pulling comatose villagers into the circle. Dagger in hand, he lifted the head of one adult, baring their neck, and with a clean stroke, opened it.

The younger him would have begun chanting praise, speaking out his devotion. But that wasn’t needed, only the intent.

The blood came to life, gushing out of the sacrifice and racing into the runes he’d carved. He let the body drop as the lifeforce within drained away and the corpse withered before his eyes. He began the process again with each villager, the power in the runes increasing.

By the time he was done, the floor was caked in dust and scattered clothing. The runes glowed bright, bathing the hall in a gold radiance.

Closing his eyes, he thought. ‘All for him, in return for audience, and answers.’ The lights so bright, ceased to be. Darkness fell, only to be battered away a moment later as a being most divine appeared within the hall. Without thought, he collapsed to his knees, staring at his god.

Fur, the color of Sun, his eyes, beacons of power glowing with the promise of salvation, or damnation. Clad in silks of gold, each woven with endless patterns that dazzled the mind. Bronduff lowered his gaze, half prostrating himself as joy took him. The knowing that he was worthy of being personally visited, whenever requested.

“Rise my champion,” Malan said, his words a sweet melody.

Bronduff lifted himself, and returned his gaze upon his god, who was staring at their surroundings.

A hall of ash.

***

Malan mentally sighed, his nature at odds with the scene. In the beginning he was a healer, an icon of wellbeing, and life. More often than not, he was now that of death. But that didn’t change the core of him, even as reality forced his hand.

A part of him wanted to lecture his monstrously large Kolune of snow colored fur. His devout champion, headhunter, Executioner, and bloody right hand. About the savagery of this, but he wouldn’t, this was Bronduff’s nature, the way he dealt with heretics, and the best means he saw fit to provide Devotion.

Warming, in a sickly way, the depths his champion went into preserving every sacrifice to the last moment. Making sure as much life could be drawn from it as possible. He found it very respectful to the dead, not that they shared this opinion. To the Souls all around them, this was a horrendous sight to witness after being freed from their bodies. Many were mourning, and filling with rage as they glared at him, and his champion.

One threatening look from him, and the Souls flinched. The wisest hurried away, following the natural pull of the Glen to find their afterlife, or new body to inhabit. News of this settlement’s end would reach guardians, and the fact he’d shown himself in a place partially claimed by Wargain. He, and his champion, would have to be quick with their talk.

“It was a fine offering,” he began. Since his champion, and friend, deserved the praise. Few would have offered all they’d gathered to him, not after the unnecessary amount of work Bronduff put himself through to see it done.

It came with strings, but they were paltry requests.

As such, he sent half back, the act causing light to stream from him. Most went to Bronduff, but other—smaller lines—spread out, and into the Shadows who’d aided his champion.

“You’ve been offering quite a bit of late,” Malan continued. This was the seventh village this year, and the raids done in a quick succession. Though most had been small, never reaching above a hundred, it was still enough to draw attention to the area. “And though I am always appreciative of the Devotion, I wonder why the risk?”

Bronduff lowered his head again, resembling a child being scolded, metaphorically, it troubled Malan’s heart to see.

“I know it breaks your command god, but local priests of Cycure have been proclaiming that you have been defeated, broken, no longer a threat.” Bronduff said, showing some teeth. Angry on his behalf, even as Malan himself felt nothing of the sort. “I wanted them to see the folly in this. And,” turning his head, sight on the bundles of cloth resting on a table. “I have come across a mystery that I believe needs your attention.”

Malan knew of the infants, knew of anything living within, or near the shrine his champion had made. He instantly recognized a claim upon them, a foreign one. Its very nature chaotic, a shifting of colors, all mixing into a blackness that couldn’t be pierced, even with his eyes.

Alarming, but not the greatest part of it. Looking upon these claimed infants, he saw changes taking place. Some parts good, some bad, it felt random. Almost the entirety of himself was compelled to undo the act, to fix, and repair.

“Sloppy work,” he voiced, disgusted by the sight, as Bronduff moved over to the table, plucked one of the bundles, and brought it over to him.

Pulling away the cloth, Bronduff showed the child’s face, it was misshapen, and getting worse. Flesh bloated, and teeth growing unnaturally long. But most prominent of all, was a physical third eye growing from its forehead. “This is the only one with so much affliction, but others are showing signs, and none will wake from their nightmares.”

“And its only affecting the children?” He asked, and received a nod.

“The other villages I sacrificed to you were suffering the same oddity, and it’s getting worse,” Bronduff added.

Malan hummed in thought, and moved closer to the misshapen boy. “No newly formed god then, nor a withering one.” Neither would have the power, nor would the latter do something so slow as a final act of vengeance.

Nature compelling him, Malan flexed his will, undid the mutations, and tried pulling the child from his sleep.

Eyes, an endless sea, joined with a landscape of blackness, filled his vision before disappearing just as quickly. This achieved, since he’d removed his influence from the child.

Bronduff dropped the infant, deftly grabbing hold of his axe, and half way from carving the thing in two; Malan raised a hand, and his champion went still.

The boy let out a small whimper as he hit stone—still not waking—and began fidgeting about as the nightmare plaguing him grew worse. The aura around the child deepened, and Malan watched as his work was quickly undone; the boy once more a disfigured mess.

“Troubling,” Malan voiced. “Thank you for bringing this situation to my attention.”

Bronduff bowed: “I take it there is nothing that can be done then?” he asked, eyes fixed upon the thing.

Malan hesitated with an answer, not out of any personal pride, but what the admission would entail. Bronduff, his Executioner, would react in a fitting way to his nature.

Malan pushed the urge to protect the boy aside, he knew his limits, and couldn’t waste Devotion on an unknown. No matter how much it chafed the core of what he was, this foreign entity wasn’t something he could focus on right now.

“No.” He forced out, his sight focusing on his champion, and the child pushed from his mind. “The god causing this, is willing to fight for its claim. Whatever I do, it will counter.”

Bronduff grunted. “I’ve taken some of them under my care, those from other villages, I’d assumed they would recover.” A silence fell between them. “I’ll take care of it.” His champion responded, knowing full well how he would feel about choosing the children’s fate.

‘Out of mind, out of mind,’ he recited, blocking the thoughts. “If there isn’t anything else, I’ll be off. This problem has to be investigated, and you need to be going.” He looked about the hall, gazing at the trophies honoring Wargain and some of his sons. “By now enough souls will have informed Wargain loyalist of your activities in the area. And once they find signs of these deformed, we’ll be the ones blamed.”

Truly irritating, shoddy work proclaimed to be his own.

“There is nothing else god,” Bronduff said kneeling, an aura of Devotion glowing from him. “I will also leave these lands, enough has been done to still the tongues of Cycure’s priests.”

“Farewell then,” Malan said out of politeness, before dispersing his form, and moving his will away.

***

In a brilliance of light, his god vanished, and the hall darkened from the loss of divine radiance.

He waited three seconds before acting.

Removing the central piece of the shrine, the runes going dormant. He turned to the infant, and with a trained hand split the deformed child in two with his axe, its whimpers finally coming to an end. He looked to the other bundles, all spoiled pups that would never grow into devout followers to his god.

“Such a waste,” he spoke, nearing them.